


new days

by Airheart



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Mech Preg, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-War, Slight Canon Divergence, Time Skips, asexual reproduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-11-18 16:19:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11294289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airheart/pseuds/Airheart
Summary: The war is long over, and Cybertron prospers again, allowing for many things that simply couldn't be done before.





	new days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tentaculiferous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tentaculiferous/gifts).



> nabbed the title from [New Days by Delta Rae](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7aJ23LfyFIY)
> 
> I enjoyed writing this! I hope you like it C:

It was quiet for a moment. Optimus slotted a last ingot of crystallized Energon into his intake, then closed it and leaned back in his seat and waited patiently for Ratchet to find his voice. He could quite see his words sinking into Ratchet’s processor. Understandable, he thought. It was no small thing, deciding to carry.

“You—” Ratchet put down the ingot of Energon he was holding, his brows drawn together. “Have you already put in an application?”

“No,” said Optimus, “although I have completed one.” He took the datapad out of his subspace, and held it out to Ratchet. As Ratchet took it, he went on, “I thought that it would be prudent to discuss it with you before I went any further.”

“You’re right,” Ratchet muttered. He flicked through the application screens, past the usual tech specs and medical history, and looked over the personal narrative sections. A few words and phrases popped out at him— _righteous duty… Cybertron’s best interest… blessings… protecting future generations…_ the writing was immaculate, but there was very little mention of _I_ or _me._ As expected of Optimus, Ratchet thought. Always concerned with others, hardly ever himself.

“You are against the idea?” Optimus asked, when Ratchet had not spoken for several kliks.

“No,” Ratchet said, “it is actually a good idea. It’s just a little unexpected.”

He was being honest—Optimus was (pardon the pun) a prime candidate for the repopulation program. The plague, the war, and time had decimated Transformer numbers, leaving maybe 1.5 billion bots in the solar system—and that included the colonists. It was a sad fraction of what they had once been. The Well was producing bots, but more slowly than it ever had, and the planetspeakers in New Kaon saw no signs of the rates improving. Naturally, there was worry of their race dying out, so scientists and doctors together had developed a spark-budding code that would allow living bots to create a new spark from their own.

Still, it was relatively new, and the code had its limitations. The only viable sparks were those of large, heavy bots, who could spare the energy and mass required, and there were precious few of those heavy-builds now. Optimus was an especially strong candidate because of his Prime heritage, and his frame that had been upgraded by Solus Prime’s legendary Forge.

But he had not shown any interest in participating in the program before now. Most bots felt that he had done quite enough for the planet already, and no one asked him to carry for the cause. Even Ratchet had assumed that the program was just background noise to Optimus, busy as he was with other things. To be suddenly presented with a completed application was surprising, to say the least.

Ratchet handed the datapad back to Optimus.

“You’ve clearly thought it through,” Ratchet said. “All that there really is for me to say is, I will support you.” Optimus smiled, and leaned forward to briefly touch the crest of his helm to Ratchet’s.

“Thank you, old friend,” he said, and dutifully packaged the application for transmitting over the Grid.

* * *

 

Of course, the program accepted Optimus almost immediately. They scheduled his appointment for the next cycle, with a portotrician named Minerva, a native of Paradron. Ratchet would have preferred to be Optimus’s primary doctor throughout the process, but carrying was not his specialty, and it was generally considered bad form to treat one’s mate. During the war, they had had little choice, but now that they were home, the rules were different. Optimus did not mind. Minerva was well-learned, and she was very sweet.

“I hope that it isn’t strange for me to say that I feel very fortunate to see your spark,” she said, as she gently inspected the chamber. “It’s beautiful.”

“You grace me, with such a compliment,” said Optimus kindly. His spark was indeed unique, although only a handful of bots still alive fully understood what made it so. Most Cybertronians knew by now that he had been restored by Solus’s Forge, at least, but his true heritage was kept a secret from them. He was a Prime, but not one of _the_ Primes, as far as they were concerned, and that was the way it was supposed to be.

Minerva smiled at him, then picked up her datapad and typed something rapidly. “Alright, if you would please lower your firewalls, I’ll start running the budding program. “

Optimus did as she asked, and she plugged a thick cable into a port at the back of his neck. It slid into place with a satisfying _thunk-click_.

“I will also be installing a small monitoring program, to keep track of the new spark once it starts to form,” Minerva went on. “It should only take about a joor.” She glanced at her datapad again, presumably checking his file, then said, “You’ll still have half the work-cycle left at the Hall of Records, so you may go to work when we’re done here.”

“I am glad to hear that. I believe Ratchet has noted in my records that I am a bit… zealous in my work,” Optimus said, sounding amused.

“‘Workaholic’ is what he wrote,” Minerva replied, nodding. Then she giggled. “He’s one to talk, isn’t he?”

“We are both guilty,” Optimus said fairly. “It is a difficult habit to shake.”

“It must be nice to return to familiar work, though,” said Minerva. “You worked in the Hall of Records before the war, didn’t you?”

“I did, though I was only a clerk then.”

“Oh, yes, I can only imagine how much more work the Archivist has. Do you like the position?”

Optimus thought on it for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “I have always enjoyed datawork.” Since Alpha Trion had relocated to Vector Sigma’s atrium, to liaise with Vector and to help train the recently established guild of planetspeakers, Optimus had taken over the position of head Archivist at the Hall of Records. Some bots thought it a bit odd that he would return to the work of his old caste, when he could have easily been a councilmember or a military general or even a spiritual leader to the people, but he had declined all of those offers. His purpose was to serve the people, it always had been. The age of Primes was long over. Technically, he should not even hold the title of Prime anymore, as he no longer carried the Matrix of Leadership, but the council had let him keep it as a small token of their appreciation for everything he had done (it was really all they could give him, as he refused anything more grand).

It was quiet work, and he liked the honesty of it, and he told Minerva so. She nodded in understanding.

“Still, I want you to take it easy,” she said. “You can work, but please set reasonable limits, or I will.”

“Ratchet will be with me,” Optimus assured her. “I am confident that the process will go smoothly. I am in many capable hands, after all.”

Minerva smiled at the compliment.

As promised, the installation took a little more than a joor, and she disconnected the cable promptly. Optimus stood up carefully.

“I will send you some literature on managing the signs and symptoms of carrying,” Minerva said, “as well as nutrition information. I also have a packet on keeping your Conjunx involved in the process, if you’d like to read that?”

“I would,” said Optimus. “Please, do send anything you find relevant.”

“Of course. I’m sure that Ratchet will have his own host of information, too.” Minerva extended her hand, and Optimus shook it carefully. His hand engulfed her delicate servo. She seemed amused by that, and told him to not hesitate to contact her if he had any questions or concerns, or even if he just wanted to chat.

“I must thank you again for doing this,” she said, as she showed him to the door. “It’s an honor to work with you.”

“And you.” Optimus inclined his head politely to her. “Good day, Minerva.”

“Good day, Optimus Prime.”

* * *

 

“We won’t stay the whole time,” Ratchet said. He was talking to himself more than to Optimus, but Optimus still hummed in response as he fastened a beryllium brooch at his throat, pinning his cloak closed. Then he carefully arranged the fine mesh fabric over his shoulders until it draped just so, and turned to Ratchet.

“It is for a good cause, so it is no time wasted,” he said.

“No, I just do not particularly enjoy the boasting and posturing from certain colleagues,” said Ratchet. “Knock Out isn’t so annoying anymore, but there are some surgeons from Translucentica Heights that I can hardly stand.” He clasped his own gold brooch on, slightly off-center to make for a very appealing asymmetrical line in his blue cloak. It complemented his orange paint, and the cut made him appear slimmer and taller. He examined himself in the mirror, making minute adjustments here and there, before he noticed Optimus smiling at him in the reflection. “What?”

“You look quite handsome, old friend,” said Optimus.

Ratchet stared at him for a moment, then went back to needlessly adjusting his cloak. “Anyone looks good in Yussian clothing.” He had never taken compliments well. Optimus came up behind him, and rested his hands on his shoulders.

“Is that so? I have never seen anyone who looked so fine, even in Yussian goods.”

“Oh?” Ratchet allowed himself a little smile now. “Then you have not seen Knock Out at his prettiest. I’m sure he’ll be dressed to the nines tonight, even if it is only a charity gala.”

“I only have optics for you, Ratchet.”

“By the Creator,” Ratchet said, playing at exasperation. “You’ve watched too many Earth romance movies. Age has softened you.”

“Only in spirit,” Optimus said. He brushed his hand affectionately against Ratchet’s cheek, then said, “Shall we go?”

“Alright.” Ratchet smoothed his cloak one last time, and then they were on their way.

They did not live far from the university, where the gala was being held, so they walked easily. It was a nice evening, with little wind and a clear sky. Optimus gazed up at it as they went, picking out what planets and satellites he recognized—the new Six Lasers, its construction nearly completed; and further in the distance, the planet Velocitron, a little larger than the stars surrounding it and glowing violet. Caminus lay far beyond it, hardly a speck even to Optimus’s optics. There were space bridges scattered throughout, invisible while they were not in use, and many of them still had not been restored. Interstellar traffic in and out of Cybertron was restricted to two bridges for now, one over Polyhex and the other over the Hydrax Plateau. Most Transformers relied on starships or others with shuttle alt modes, making for slow, but more convenient travel—

“Optimus? Are you listening?”

Ratchet was looking up at him, one brow raised. Optimus shuttered his optics briefly.

“I apologize,” he said. “I was thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing of importance.”

Ratchet cast an appraising glance over him, with a doctor’s practiced optic. He couldn’t help it. Deep down, Optimus knew he was worried, even though the carrying cycle was going perfectly by the textbook and Minerva had been sending daily reports of the new spark’s development. It would be about the size of Optimus’s palm now, and sometimes, he could feel it pulsing near his own spark, just slightly out of sync. Soon it would start developing its own energy signature, and Optimus would feel that, too. Minerva warned him that it would feel very strange at first. Optimus had already decided not to mention any weird sensations to Ratchet, as long as they were not out of the ordinary for the carrying process.

He gave Ratchet a small, reassuring smile. “Do not worry. What were you saying, before? I’m afraid I was not listening, my apologies.”

“Not me,” said Ratchet. "Detective Dropforge just passed us. He said hello, and you didn’t reply.”

“Oh.” Optimus glanced around, and saw Dropforge ahead of them on the street, in vehicle mode and getting farther away by the nanoklik. “I did not mean to be so rude. I will apologize to him later.”

“You’ve been absent minded, lately,” said Ratchet. “You must remember to redirect some of the energy back to your central processor.”

“The new spark requires the extra power.”

“Reroute it from your weapon systems. You aren’t putting them to any better use.”

Optimus looked at his hands, turning them over and picturing the cannons hidden in his forearms. “You are right, old friend. I became accustomed to devoting most of my resources to my weapons during the war. The habit lingers, I see.”

“For many of us,” said Ratchet.

They reached the university, and the usher quickly found their names on the gala’s guest list. He directed them inside, though not without commenting on how beautiful Optimus’s brooch was. Optimus thanked him graciously, and then they went inside.

It was a fine evening. A band from New Harmonex played on a round stage in the corner of the room, and there were several mobile refined oil dispensaries moving among the guests. Like most of the services and products there, they had been donated by local oilhouses for the event. The gala was raising funds for the repopulation program, going towards research and the construction of a portotrics clinic in the northeast sector of Iacon, and many of Iacon’s businesses were more than happy to volunteer their services. Many of them donated to the evening’s silent auction as well, and even a few affluent Cybertronians gave things like tickets to the Speedia on Velocitron, or a vacation to Aquatron. It was all quite luxurious, the likes of which Optimus had not seen since the beginning of the Golden Age. It made him glad to see that bots were indulging themselves again, in a time of peace and growing prosperity. He touched his chest, where he could feel the new spark pulsing a little out of sync with his own again, and smiled to himself. The war was not a distant memory yet, but they were getting there.

They saw Ultra Magnus not long after they arrived, looking at the auction items, and he raised a friendly hand to them. He looked splendid in a white cloak, with the fine mesh wrapped high around his neck and draped elegantly back over his shoulders. There were fine gold chains decorating his shoulder stacks, and they jingled softly when he moved to touch his helm briefly to Optimus’s in greeting.

“You’re looking well, sir,” Ultra Magnus said.

“And you, Ultra Magnus,” Optimus replied. Ultra Magnus moved to greet Ratchet, then straightened up. He looked over Optimus’s frame as much as was polite, his gaze lingering on his chest for a moment.

“I heard tell that you volunteered for the repopulation program,” he said. “Is it true?”

“Indeed, I am carrying.”

“How interesting,” Ultra Magnus said, almost to himself. Then he blinked. “Of course, I don’t mean to be rude, sir. I only mean that it is interesting how far we have progressed in such a relatively short amount of time.”

“I agree,” Optimus said. “It is good to see that the war did not break us.” He looked around the ballroom again, a slight, fond smile playing around his mouth.

“Are you alone, Magnus?” Ratchet asked. Ultra Magnus shook his head.

“My partner is somewhere around here,” he said. “Most likely chasing down the mobile dispensaries. He wants to open a bar on the south side, but he has run into some trouble with finding fuel vendors.”

“They have become rare,” Ratchet agreed. “Perhaps he should look into making his own.”

“Hm.” Ultra Magnus looked like he did not think that was a very good idea, but he didn’t say so. He looked away on the pretext of scanning the room for his partner, then changed the subject, asking after Optimus’s work at the Hall of Records. Ratchet only half-listened to the conversation. He found the gala’s dedicated network on the Grid and logged on, skimming the list of auction items.

As the evening went on, they saw more old and new friends, and almost all of them asked after the new spark budding in Optimus’s chest. A few of them even seemed a bit jealous—it would be an honor to carry, emulating the Creator and Solus Prime, but they were too small. Optimus was patient with their questions, humble in his responses, kind and gracious in everything that he did and it made Ratchet’s spark swell with affection. There had been a long time when he had thought that they would never be together in peace again, but thankfully, he had been wrong. He was glad that some of Orion Pax’s sweetness lingered in Optimus Prime, even after all this time.

When the auction part of the event was finished and the winners announced, Ratchet had placed the top bid on a full-service couple’s spa day, much to Optimus’s surprise.

“You did not say anything about this,” he said, but he looked pleased at the idea. Ratchet was already scanning their schedules for an opening.

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise,” he replied, and Optimus smiled.

Before the gala was over, they danced together, to a soft, mid-tempo song by the New Harmonex band in the style of classical Earth music, and both of the sparks in Optimus’s chest thrummed happily.

* * *

 

 

The spa was a small one, owned by a Yussian and situated in the old district, where the most original buildings that had survived the war stood. Ratchet was careful to pick a date and time that it would not be very busy, and there was only one other couple in the communal area. They were friendly, and the four of them exchanged pleasantries before the other couple excused themselves to one of the private rooms. Optimus and Ratchet picked one deeper in the spa, closer to the central reservoir that fed the entire bathhouse. There, the molten Energon was hotter and flowed a little thicker with traces of Cybertron’s metals. This fuel, inky blue in color, was not suitable for ingestion, and too weak to fuel the space bridges, so it was made useful as a soothing, healing bath. The bath itself was set in the ground, large enough for a pair of triplechangers to sit comfortably, with adjustable platforms placed throughout so that more diminutive Transformers could sit without drowning. In a basket near the edge, there were soft buffing cloths, imported from Earth and other organic colonies; brushes of various sizes and coarseness; waxes and oils; even a handheld, battery-powered buffer. There were some bath additives, as well—just things that would make the bath pretty, like pearly dyes or multicolored foams. Ratchet rifled through them as Optimus adjusted the platforms.

“It’s like the Golden Age again,” Ratchet said, reading the label on a metallic purple bath dye. “So luxurious. Almost as if nothing happened…” He put the dye down, shaking his head. “We are the lucky ones.” He did not have to say more, as Optimus knew—things in the Stanix and Simfur regions were still grim, and the Badlands were yet uninhabitable.  The Hydrax Plateau had only been restored as a port for the space bridge. The surrounding area was still dark, sitting in ruins, and there were no plans to rebuild there yet. There was fuel, no shortage of it, but they lacked the botpower to continue restorations that far from the capital. Optimus touched his chest.

“Things will improve, old friend,” he said, then, “Come and sit.”

Ratchet did, and they sat in a companionable silence for a long time. The new spark beat lazily beside Optimus’s own, lulled almost into standby by the warmth and stillness. It had developed its unique signature in the past deca-cycle, a good sign that it was ready to be removed within the next few cycles. Optimus found the sensation of having two signatures in him interesting, almost comforting. It made him feel close to Solus, too, and he secretly hoped that the spark would become someone in her image, like Elita-One and Arcee. He had not told anyone this, though, only expressing his wishes for the new spark to be healthy and sustainable.

Ratchet could feel the second spark, too, showing as a separate entity on his scanners. It was labeled with a single glyph, “new,” followed by a series of numbers, and would only be identified that way until its name was registered in the DataNet, and that name would be decided by Vector Sigma. A small part of Ratchet, and some part of Optimus as well, wished that they could have named the new spark and the bot that it would become. Privately, Ratchet liked the sound of _Kodiak of Iacon._ Optimus favored the name Solaris, after his sister. It was just fanciful thinking, of course.

Idly, Ratchet moved closer to Optimus, leaning into his side and resting a hand on his thigh. They never had to say much in each other’s company—each understood the other and knew him like the back of his own hand, and they didn’t need to fill the silences. After spending so long at war, it was nice to be able to sit and do nothing without worrying about whether they would die tomorrow.

Optimus shifted his legs, spreading them wider and pressing his thigh against Ratchet’s. His face did not betray anything, but Ratchet raised an optic ridge. Slowly, he ran his hand over Optimus’s thigh and closer to his pelvis, testing for boundaries. Optimus didn’t stop him. In fact, he readjusted his position so that Ratchet’s hand brushed against the panel covering his interface array.

“Get up,” Ratchet said immediately. Optimus obeyed, hoisting himself up to sit on the edge of the bath, and Ratchet knelt in front of him, still submerged in molten fuel from the hips down. “Don’t open, yet, let me…” He trailed off, reaching out to touch Optimus’s inner thighs with both hands. They were thick, strong, the silvery-white plating reflecting the soft glow of the Energon in the bath. The Forge’s upgrades were a blessing in both looks and functionality—Optimus was stronger, sturdier, and he looked powerful and regal as he was. Ratchet loved it. He rubbed his thumbs over the near-invisible seams in the plating, then up to the gaps where Optimus’s legs met his hips. The dark gray armor underneath was a nice contrast to the outer plating.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, after a few kliks. His voice resonated, seeming to make Ratchet’s very protoform vibrate. Ratchet shivered.

“Yes, yes,” he said, a bit hastily, “open it.”

Optimus’s panel split down an invisible seam in the middle and opened with a tiny _click_. The biolights shone a vibrant blue, the same color as his optics. They were meant to be a guide for medics, highlighting his ports and plug in the case of maintenance or surgery, but they were very attractive and Ratchet paused to admire them in a very unprofessional manner. Then he put his hands to work, around and in and out of Optimus’s main port, making him twitch and moan deeply, such a good sound to Ratchet’s audio receptors.

It had been some time since they had last interfaced this way, and Optimus overloaded rather quickly. Ratchet slowed his ministrations, but did not stop even after the charge had passed, until Optimus gently pushed his hand away.

“I would like to return the favor, first,” he said. Ratchet shook his head.

“No, thank you. I’m alright.” He looked at his fingers, examining the transfluid staining them for a moment. It was a good, translucent red—healthy, for a bot of Optimus’s make. Then he dipped his hand in the bath to rinse the transfluid away. The filters would clean the whole bath within the joor. “Perhaps later.”

“Very well,” said Optimus. He closed his panel and lowered himself back into the bath, and Ratchet leaned against him again, closing his optics and relaxing in the warmth.

* * *

It was very strange to suddenly be reduced to just one energy signature when the new spark was removed. Optimus had grown so used to the extra spark, and a small part of him missed it. 

The extraction appointment took no longer than the initial installation. Minerva carefully transferred the new spark into an incubator, where it would stay while it was transported to Kalis, and held it out for Optimus to see.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Minerva asked, her voice soft and reverent. Optimus agreed. The new spark was bright and hot, shining an opalescent blue as it pulsed in the incubator. It beamed even brighter when Optimus leaned towards it for a better look, and he thought for a moment that it moved.

"It still recognizes your signature. It's a survival reflex—it wants to return to that energy source." Minerva cradled the incubator in one arm and slid a shutter over the glass, hiding the spark from view. "In time, though, it will learn that it can sustain itself."

"As we all must do," Optimus said sagely. He stood up from the examination table as Minerva put the incubator away, then extended his hand to her. "Thank you, Minerva."

"Thank _you,_ Optimus Prime," said Minerva. She took his hand in both of hers, clasping it earnestly. "It's been lovely working with you."

Optimus only smiled. He was simply doing his duty, the purpose he had been given ages ago when he entered the Well with Onyx and Micronus. Still, as Minerva smiled at him, and as he thought of the new registry forms he reviewed every day—the namings of new bots, the Endura bonds of friends and lovers, the declarations of arrivals of bots who had long been thought lost—then he couldn't deny that it was enormously rewarding.


End file.
